Ouroboros
by Dragon of Dispair
Summary: In the beginning of all the best stories, everyone meets in a tavern. Theodore Kurita, Coordinator of the Draconis Combine, gets a different ending, or possibly a new beginning. Possibly Multicross.


Disclaimer: if you recognize it, it's not mine. if you don't recognize it, it's still probably not mine. except cobweb. she's mine.

Summary: In the beginning of all the best stories, everyone meets in a tavern. Theodore Kurita, Coordinator of the Draconis Combine, gets a different ending, or possibly a new beginning. Possibly Multicross.

Ouroboros

By Dragon of Dispair

Theodore Kurita, once-Coordinator of the Draconis Combine, now simple bar patron, was waiting. This made him somewhat unique. Most patrons of the World Serpent Inn were travelling, trapped or trying to get home, not waiting. He didn't know how long he'd been waiting. His appearance hadn't changed since he'd come here. His hair had not grown from its short, almost military cut, and no lines on his face had either grown or shrunk. He was an old man, but was getting neither older nor younger. If he weren't waiting, he might have traded in his silk, red and black kimono for something a bit more practical, but he wanted to be recognized when he was found and the black dragon did managed to stand out like a neon sign, even in this crowd.

He rarely left the taproom, except to go to his room upstairs (always the fifth door on the right, no matter how many other patrons also seemed to use that room) to sleep. It looked like a truly ancient tavern, with its wooden floors and thick rafters. The air always smelled like wood smoke and grease and people drinking. Though the eternal haze that always obscured the far walls of the chamber made seeing both at the same time impossible, he knew there were two flagstone fireplaces and the space between was filled with tables and chairs, at which literally anything, from angels to elementals and everything in between, could be sitting. Brawls were common, deaths uncommon. Eventually he'd chosen a table near the door as his "regular" table, though with no weapon and no armor, he did not fight over something as insignificant as a specific chair. He had not yet been curious enough to go into the back rooms. He'd been warned a lifetime ago that they were dangerous and he dreaded the day boredom drove him back there. It was a strange sort of afterlife, if afterlife it was. Since he didn't remember getting here, he couldn't truly be sure.

When the warrior-of-Nova-Cat-but-only-for-now, Acize NovaCat – Cobweb – had spoken of immortality, Theodore hadn't believed her. Not just because such a thing was impossible, but also because her story wasn't right. Stories of humans and immortality always had emphasized grief as the primary insanity-inducing condition of eternity. She had mentioned grief, but only in passing. For her, the search for entertainment had been more significant and because of this, he hadn't believed her to be speaking truthfully. He regretted dismissing her now.

He'd spent his time in grief, of course. The loss of his life, his family, his world had moved him to both tears and rage in turns. But eventually grief dulled and passed, while timelessness constantly ate away at his psyche.

At the World Serpent Inn time did not truly pass. Everyone within its coils was immortal. He ate when he was hungry; drank when thirsty; slept when tired… and as "time" went on, devoid of the daily markers of sun or moon or even the experience of watching his own hair grow, he found himself less and less connected to time. How long did he sleep? Minutes? Hours? Until he woke was all he knew. How long had it been since he last ate? Not long enough that he was hungry again…

He was unexpectedly glad the World Serpent Inn held so much that was alien to his experiences. After he'd finished freaking out over the *things* that called this place their temporary home (that floating eyeball with the tentacles had been especially disconcerting and there were far too many Cthuluesque things that passed through for true comfort), learning new things motivated him to get up each "morning". Ordering new foods was what reminded him to eat. He didn't know how "long" he'd been here before he'd ordered Klingon gagh. He knew he'd been here long enough that he'd ordered it a second time.

By the time he saw her again, he'd stopped looking.

The alien band members of the Grand Imperial Quartet played their version of _Shake that Wampa Down_ again, while Theodore was (embarrassingly) losing a game of Go to a white horse. The horse's rider-in-white and some sort of cat-rabbit thing with big eyes, bigger ears and brown fur watched and heckled. He just glanced up to see her staring up at him from her three-feet-at-most height, looking both so similar and so different from when he'd last seen her. Her dark grayish, almost fur-like hair hadn't changed, but she'd traded her Nova Cats pilot's uniform for a leather breastplate, military cargo pants, and animal-skull shield. Her rank pins – a Star Captain's – glimmered from the collar of her Indiana Jones style duster coat, matching her fedora, like always. She'd never visibly carried a weapon, and still didn't.

He wondered how he'd ever thought her human, as he looked into yellow, cat-slitted eyes darkened to gold with recent grief.

"How long?" he asked.

She snorted and sat at his table. The horse and rider, and rabbit thing left. "For you? No way to tell... For me? Twenty-two years. Crazy-assed Clanners attacking Irece. I crashed my fighter into the honorless freebirth who killed him, but... I cannot heal a PPC shot. You have a couple hundred grandchildren by now, quiaff?"

Grief surged, crashed, then faded. He'd grieved long ago and even recent news of his son's death couldn't revive it with any strength.

Interest was longer lasting.

"Tell me," he requested.

She signaled Mitchifer, ordered a White Russian (catnip infused vodka, hold the Kahlua) and yakisoba with mouse meat. Theodore's jumjum cider was refilled as her food and drink came. Then she leaned over the abandoned Go board and began, "After you had your stroke on Dieron, the Word of Blake ..."

tbc (maybe…)


End file.
